


Bringing Up Warlock Dowling

by rev02a



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley are Warlock Dowling's Parents, Bad Parenting, Bittersweet Ending, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), F/F, F/M, Family, Forgiveness, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Other, POV Warlock Dowling, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Turned out sadder than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev02a/pseuds/rev02a
Summary: The Dowlings get the honorifics, but Crowley is Warlock's mum. Sometimes Warlock accepts this fact.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 170





	Bringing Up Warlock Dowling

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone's written a Warlock story, right? I wanted it to end happier, but I just couldn't swing it. Sometimes love hurts, right?

Warlock Dowling is too small to be alone in the dark.

He lies in his cot and cries because his nappy is wet. Then he cries because no one comes. He cries and cries and cries. No one comes. Mummy doesn’t come. She never comes.

Then, like an angel, Nanny appears. Her hair floats around her head like a red halo and her uncovered eyes flash yellow in the lightning. Her dressing gown floats around her body like silk waves.

“My sweet prince,” she soothes and bundles him up into her arms and into these silk covers. “There is no need to be afraid. One day, the very weather shall obey your commands.”

Even still, she changes his nappy and swaddles him tightly. Then she settles into a rocker and sways back and forth. It’s so hard to worry when Nanny has him. From her pocket, she pulls a silver charm, which catches the flash of light from his nightlight. Warlock wants to reach for it, but his chubby arms are held tight in his bundle of blankets.

She ties the charm onto his mobile when she sets him back into his cot. “Just a minor demonic miracle, hellspawn, but it’ll work better than these stupid baby monitors.”

Nanny stands over him and watches him. Knowing that she’s there, he closes heavy eyes and sleeps.

* * *

Warlock Dowling is a big boy now. He’s big enough to ride his tricycle around the back garden and behind the rose bush where Nanny cannot see him. She used to tell him he had to stay in her sight, but he’s big now. English rain drizzles down around him, but he’s bundled up so he plays on.

An unexpected crack of lightning strikes the tree somewhere close by and Warlock sees the burst of purple and white light. He yelps in terror.

He tries to get off his trike but falls over in the process. He is terrified and sobbing. His bracelet, complete with silver snake charm, falls out from under his mackintosh and slides into his fist.

He squeezes it and cries out, “Nanny!”

Instantly, as if transported across the garden, Nanny is there. She scoops him up with one arm and settles him on her hip. She lifts the tricycle in the other hand.

“That was close, wasn’t it, my little hellspawn? Let’s get inside.”

“Francis!” she shouts and hammers on the door to his little stone shed. “Let us in! That storm came out of nowhere. Practically smite worth!”

Brother Francis jumps up from his armchair and throws open the door.

“Heavens! In you come, my dears!” No sooner have they entered than the rain becomes an angry downpour and a cacophony of thunder. The gardener tosses books and a rake from the sofa.

“Sit down, my dear lady. Shall I get us some sherry?” He takes Warlock’s trike and sets it by the door then finds some sherry glasses and waves his hand at the ancient electric kettle. Nanny kneels down and unbuttons the togs of Warlock’s mac. She slides it from his shoulders and hangs it on a peg.

“I’ll make some nursery tea for the lad. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, Master Warlock? Plenty o’ milk?” he asks, and seems to remember to lay on his accent thicker the more he speaks. Nanny rolls her eyes. She helps Warlock onto the sofa and tugs off his wellies.

Once he’s settled, she gracefully settles on the seat beside him. The lightning rips across the gray sky and Warlock burrows into Nanny’s side. He hides his face in her blouse.

“There, there, my prince. It’s just a little storm. Nothing compared to your great and awful powers.”

Francis makes a fussing noise with his mouth and Nanny sticks her tongue out at him in reply. She tightens her hold around his thin shoulders and sips her sherry. Warlock fidgets with his bracelet.

“Daddy says that I shouldn’t wear this because I’m a boy,” he whispers, as Brother Francis hands him a child’s sized teacup.

“Mr. Dowling has strange ideas about many things; this is because he’s a misogynistic prick. If you do not want to wear it as a bracelet, we will find a different way for you to keep it on you. Anytime you need me, hellspawn, just touch it and call for me,” Nanny sniffs.

Francis hums at this before topping off Nanny’s sherry. “You two make a picture, don’t ya, jus’ sittin’ there so. What we need is a story!” He selects a book and reads aloud. As he does so, the over-exaggerated accent fades away.

“There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be…” and as he reads, Warlock hears more of his voice and less of the storm. He hears Nanny’s heartbeat. In time, he falls asleep warm and soothed.

* * *

Warlock Dowling is seven-years-old and does not want to get ready for school. Nanny stands at his bedside with her hands on her hips.

“Warlock, I don’t actually care what you wear into the schoolroom this morning. You are welcome to go naked. However, you will be going into the schoolroom with Mr. Cortese and you will be doing so now.” Nanny holds out his jeans and shirt again, but Warlock turns his back on her and hits more buttons on his Switch.

“My prince, so help me, I will carry you into the schoolroom.”

“You can’t make me. My dad says nannies are for little boys and babies. I’m not either so you can just piss off and leave,” he says in a snotty voice. He’s been trying out new words that the men on the Secret Service use. It makes his mother angry, but it usually doesn’t ruffle Nanny. His next words, however, do.

“I don’t need you anymore!” he shouts and yanks his snake charm bracelet off and throws it across the room.

Nanny stares at him through her dark lenses. She does not move. She is as silent and still as a snake. Slowly, Warlock looks up into her face, feeling something in the air change, like static electricity before a storm.

Nanny lays his clothes on his bed, turns sharply on her heel, and leaves. She does not slam the door but closes it with a quick click.

Warlock waits for her to come back and fuss at him. She does not come. He sits on his bed and kicks his feet on the mattress as loud as he can. She does not come. He turns up the volume on his Switch and plays it. She does not come. He turns on his television, his radio, and any toy that makes noise. He makes sure they’re as loud as can be. She does not come.

After a while, the game isn’t fun anymore. He turns things off, one-by-one, and sits on the floor. His bracelet sparkles at him. Then, Mr. Cortese knocks on his bedroom door and sticks his head in.

“Master Warlock, sir?” he asks with perfect elocution. “Are you ill? You’re quite late for lessons.”

“Nanny told you I was late?” he asks, petulantly.

“Oh, well, no, I’m sorry, my boy. I haven’t seen your nanny this morning. Shall I fetch her? Would that help?” Mr. Cortese frets a bit.

“No!” Warlock says quickly and jumps up from the floor. “I’m coming now. I don’t need _her_.”

For some reason, emotions flit across his tutor’s face. First, triumph, then, sorrow, and, finally, longing. Warlock ignores it all and rips his nightclothes off without a shred of modesty. Mr. Cortese dithers, then steps back into the hall.

“I’ll just see you in the schoolroom then.” He closes the door and Warlock dresses hurriedly.

He doesn’t need a nanny. He will get to school himself. He does not eat breakfast, nor does his clean his teeth. He ignores the bracelet on the carpet and runs to his schoolroom.

Then, of course, he must deal with the consequences. Warlock sulks when his stomach growls and Mr. Cortese turns his face away from the boy’s breath. It feels like the longest hours _ever_ between getting into the schoolroom and when he can have lunch. He can barely focus. Mr. Cortese reprimands him gently time and again to pay attention.

Finally, even his tutor is frustrated and gives him an assignment to work on independently. He’s supposed to be writing a paragraph about the Puritans canceling Christmas. He is honestly about to start—no, really!—when Nanny knocks on the schoolroom door. Warlock glares at her and jumps up to sharpen his pencil. She does not look in his direction, but Warlock hears Mr. Cortese ask her if she is all right.

“Never better, angel.” Her voice is rough as if she’s been crying.

Warlock ignores this but feels a stab of shame. He writes his name in his best penmanship. Mr. Cortese changes the subject when Nanny will not expand on his question.

“The Pheasant and Fiddle's Sunday brunch has a rhubarb and spinach hash—“

“Angel, that sounds positively disgusting.”

“—with a poached egg. What? It sounds scrummy! I’ve half a mind to order two just to irritate you—“

This exchange makes Warlock instantly angry. Why is Nanny talking to his tutor? Was she checking up on him? He doesn’t need a _babysitter_. He grinds his pencil into the corner of his paper and graphite crumbs cover his paper. He knows that some of the staff believe that Nanny is sweet on the tutor, but that’s ridiculous. Nanny doesn’t love anyone but him.

(The driver, Mr. Bell, had a fiver on the fact that Nanny had shacked up with the gardener, but, the Head of Night Security, Mr. Carver, bet him double-or-nothing that Nanny never did him, but was doing the tutor now. Warlock wasn’t supposed to hear any of this, but adults have a disturbing habit of forgetting that, one, children have ears, and, two, children always pay closer attention when adults whisper, and, three, Warlock was in the backseat while they were talking.)

Warlock glares out into the hallway. Nanny was supposed to leave their service already. He’s too old for a nanny.

And then a giant gust of wind brings a tree limb crashing through his schoolroom window.

The glass cuts his face and hands. Blood runs into his eyes and he sobs in fear. He’s too big to cry, according to his father, but it hurts so very much. He can’t stop crying or shivering. Mr. Cortese tries to comfort him, he even does something so the blood stops, but Warlock cannot calm.

He feels like the room is contracting around him. He reaches for his bracelet—but it’s _gone_! Panic settles tightly in his chest.

And then Nanny is there. She snaps her fingers. The shutters slam shut on the old windows and as if by magic, the curtains slide shut all around the room. She drops to her knees in front of Warlock and cups his face in her hands.

“My darling prince, look at me. Look at me now. I need to check if there is glass in your eye.” And she’s so calm. Her hands are so steady. She brushes glass from his hair and eyelashes. She pats down his shirt and his face. When he grabs onto her skirt with shaking hands, she just holds him close and rubs his back.

“Are you all right, my dear boy?” Mr. Cortese asks, but he’s looking at Nanny.

“He’ll be fine. Just a bit shaken,” Nanny confirms. There is no judgment in her voice. Her hand never leaves his back.

Warlock rubs his face on her hip. He knows that he does not need a nanny, but he’s glad he has one anyway.

* * *

Warlock Dowling does not have a nanny now. He’s far too old these days and much too far away from London.

In Washington D.C., it’s the small hours of the morning. Warlock stands in his back garden (or yard or patio or whatever the hell it’s called in America, he can’t remember most of the time to use the proper words). He watches as the bands of clouds blow through. He’d brought his iPad out with him in hopes of using the star chart app to identify items that he didn’t know. There is no seeing through these storm clouds, however, even if the rains haven’t yet begun. The wind is steady, but not nearly as strong as it will be when the hurricane closes in on the coast.

He should be in bed. He knows that. However, even after six months stateside, he is still on Greenwich time. Unable to sleep at this hour, he’s grateful for something to do tonight instead of toss and turn in his bed.

Other people tell him that there is no such thing as being perpetually unlucky. Clearly, they have never lived one day with Warlock Downing. He wasn’t even surprised when this hurricane headed straight for Virginia. It’s par for the course, as Mister Thaddeus would say.

He is very lonely, he’ll admit. No one is there to check in on him since they moved to DC. Mister Thaddeus is at the White House, of course. Harriet is sleeping—Nanny used to say that a cocktail and a Xanax would do that to a mortal.

(Many people were very concerned with the way that Warlock referred to his parents. Thaddeus personally liked “Dad”. It was very political language; it brought to mind a father and son playing catch. It’s important to know, however, that Thaddeus and Warlock do not play catch. Meanwhile, Harriet was fond of her first name and thought “mom/mama/mother” was just too traditional for her. Warlock, on the other hand, could probably do the maths on how many hours he spent with these two adults, so they didn’t get to pick their honorifics. Nanny, was his actual mum, if you asked him. She taught him that no matter what genetics say, the mantle of respect was earned. Of course, Brother Francis claimed that being alive gave everything inherent value. Thus, Warlocks settled on the titles of Mister Thaddeus and Mrs. Dowling. Mr. Cortese seemed to appreciate the passive-aggressive nature in the titles and Nanny loved it when he thumbed his nose at the world. Everyone else could suck it.)

School has been a strange combination of online-but-almost-cancelled since the pandemic began, but with the impending storm, even that is called off. Therefore, he can’t go to school. To add to the anxiety, the Secret Service is starting to get antsy about being home with their own families. Warlock is trying not to get worried. The wind knocks something over down below the deck and it startles him. He grabs his iPad and heads back into the dark house.

Inside, he can hear Harriet’s secretary argue with the head of security. They’re trying to whisper, but they’re not successful.

“I can be there and back with my wife in like two hours.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels,” he says, “but you cannot leave. We are in a lockdown situation; no one in or out.”

The secretary grumbles about not being able to even check if they had water enough for a storm and Mr. Lloyd agrees.

“I’d love to know what my missus needs too,” Mr. Lloyd says, “but we knew what we signed up for when we took this job. We just have to trust that our ladies took care of business.”

Warlock steals past them and slips up the back stairs. His room is boring without WIFI, but his parents paid some IT guy to make it turn off at nine at night, so there’s nothing for it right now. And, if he’s honest, it’s a little spooky with the shadows that the wind and the branches outside are casting. He turns on the lamp on his desk and tries to ignore his unease.

When he can take it no more, he goes into his desk drawer and finds the secret flip phone. He almost cries with relief when it turns on. It looks like a burner phone from a spy movie, only, it has a little thread tied to its top. Three black beads tie onto it, like prayer beads, and the thread ends with a small silver snake charm.

The flip phone arrived via the post the hour after Warlock moved into his new American home. It came from the address for a bookshop in Soho, but he used that address for all his correspondence to and from Nanny. At first, the phone was a novelty—it was “vintage”, but never needed to be charged. The craze wore off quickly and his parents bought him a smartphone.

There are two numbers programmed into the phone. He doubts he’ll ever dial the one labeled “Francis Cortese”, but it’s nice to know he has it anyhow.

(It was strange at first, but when he’d stared at the two names together it made complete sense. _Of course_ the gardener and the tutor were one and the same person. Who could think differently? How had he thought differently at any point in his life? Strange.)

The wind whips outside and Warlock rubs his fingers along the snake charm. Without blinking, he stares the contact for Nanny. Before he can call, however, the mobile in his hand begins to ring.

“Warlock,” she exclaims, panic caught up with her tone. “Are you safe?”

Warlock’s voice hitches with sudden embarrassment. “Nanny? Nanny is that you?”

“Yes, my prince. Are you safe?” she still sounds breathless in worry.

His words spill out of him. “I’m trying to be brave, but it’s storming. It’s a hurricane.”

“It’s all right, my sweet prince.” Nanny’s voice softens and her vowel modulates into a Scottish brogue. “It’s quite frightening right now, isn’t it? Are you alone?”

“The security men are here,” Warlock admits, sounding less stressed. “And I have a torch—flashlight—whatever it’s called.”

“Mister Thaddeus is at work then?” Nanny queries. 

“Yeah, with the President. They eat McDonald's together and watch some idiot talk on the news,” Warlock comments. He tries to convey how very unimpressed he is. Nanny gives a hum that usually means she’s amused.

“And Mrs. Downing?”

Suddenly more uncomfortable than he’d like to admit, Warlock rummages in his desk. He opens a drawer or door and shifts papers.

“Warlock,” Nanny says, halfway between scolding and reassuring, “you are stalling.”

Warlock answers in a hurry, hoping to make the words less painful. “You know how Harriet is.” He spins slowly in his office chair. It squeaks as it turns. “She’s here. In the house.”

“Sweetheart,” Nanny comforts while trying to sound like she’s not gathering intel. Warlock knows this game well. “How prepared would you say your home is for a storm?”

“We have batteries,” Warlock answers honestly. His voice cracks. “We’ve got a basement. It’s dark though and I can’t turn on my bedroom light or they’ll get cross that I’m not asleep.”

“No one is going to get cross, my prince,” Nanny assures him. Warlock feels tears prickling at his eyes. That was true once when Nanny ran his bedroom and could order people around however she wanted. It’s far less true now.

“Security said they took the President into his bunker and the Vice President somewhere else. We’re in lockdown at the house,” Warlock reports, trying to stay brave. “A bunch of the security people want to go home, ya know?”

Nanny’s voice is tight when she asks, “But they’re still with you right now?”

“Downstairs,” Warlock complains. His voice starts to take on the annoying whine that every kid his age masters. There is probably an eye roll in the very near future of this phone call—even if he was the one to dial first.

“Sweetheart, this is important. Do you remember our system?” Nanny asks, urgently.

Warlock huffs and rolls his eyes dramatically. “ _Yes_ , Nanny.”

“Good. Now, are you safe?”

“That’s a stupid question. There’s a category three hurricane headed here; no one in DC is safe right now.”

“Warlock, answer the question,” Nanny snaps impatiently.

“Eight.”

“Thank you,” Nanny exhales as if trying to stay patient. “When was the last time an adult checked on you?”

“Two.”

Somewhere, in the background of the phone call, Francis Cortese asks Nanny if they need to go. Nanny mutters something in reply.

Her voice comes back clearly into Warlock’s ear when she asks, “And how much do you want to be there?”

“Nanny,” Warlock whispers, his American accent sliding away to his childhood British tones, “our code doesn’t have a zero.”

And Warlock hears a slightly muffled, but kind voice says, “Bring him here, my darling.”

“Warlock, my sweet prince, I need you to be honest with me. If I were to bring you here with me and Azi— _Francis_ , would you want to come? Honestly.”

Warlock’s yearning and sadness are nearly palatable as he says, “Ten. No, twenty.”

Warlock feels a tugging from his navel and then he’s dissolving into a million tiny pieces, mobile still held to his ear. He glances around in complete disorientation and concern. He’s in the center of a bookshop, lit by the gray of the morning. Nanny grabs him by the shoulders and forces him to look into her eyes.

Warlock’s eyes are huge, “Nanny? How—“

Nanny pulls down her sunglasses and lets her serpent side loose. Warlock wobbles as he feels the pull of the hypnosis.

“You flew here to visit Aziraphale and me this morning. You hated the trip on an airplane, but you’re here now. You are safe. Brother Francis Cortese goes by Aziraphale now. I go by Crowley, but you may call me Nanny. You are visiting London because your parents were out of town, but you are going to stay longer because of the storm.”

And he slides the glasses back into place.

(Warlock, like Crowley’s previous progeny, experienced this process a number of times in his childhood. As Crowley believed the boy to be the Anti-Christ, he used this tool sparingly compared to his older children. It was highly useful for helping feverish children sleep, convincing terrified kids that they would not be sucked down the drain during their evening bath, and prompting boys and girls to do their chores already as they’d been asked thirty-two times in the last hour and the goats would not feed themselves.)

Warlock blinks and refocuses on the room. Something slots into place. Nanny is a man, Crowley, and that’s— _not_ a surprise, somehow. Francis is Aziraphale. Again, it’s not a surprise for some reason. Neither is the fact that he seems to have found a barber and a dentist between his time gardening and time tutoring.

Warlock feels like there’s something he is supposed to ask Nanny.

“Do you know where my charger is?” he asks, his American accent completely gone. He looks down at his hand, expecting his Switch to be there, but it’s only his old mobile phone. He blinks. Nope, how strange, it wasn’t his mobile, after all, it _is_ his game. Weird. Maybe he needs to lie down.

“It’s around,” Crowley states before he grabs the boy into a tight hug.

“Nanny,” Warlock whines. There is a split second pause because he hugs back. Crowley kisses his forehead and then pushes him over to Aziraphale. The other man lays his had on Warlock’s head in blessing, then pulls him in for a one-armed hug.

“We best call your family then,” Aziraphale suggests.

“Why ever for?” Nanny scoffs.

“Crowley, my dear, the boy’s parents are expecting—well, you know. It’s best to let them know that he’s arrived.”

Nanny’s sunglasses flash and his mouth curls petulantly. “Warlock,” he sniffs, “the angel thinks you need to call the adults.”

Warlock rolls his eyes and grabs his mobile out of pocket and dials. It’s no surprise when Harriet’s voicemail picks up.

“You’ve reached Harriet Dowling’s voicemail. Please let me a message.”

“Ugh, hi, ugh, Harriet. Nanny made me call—“ Nanny glares at him. “But I made it. I’m here. Safe. You know. Okay. Bye.”

He ends the call and looks up to the two men. Aziraphale frets and fidgets.

Nanny looks at Aziraphale, “Told ya.”

He then reaches out and grabs Warlock around the shoulder and guides him further into the bookshop.

“Aziraphale believes in the best of people—it hurts him when it’s not what really happens.”

“Sure,” Warlock responds because it feels like Nanny wants some kind of answer.

They climb a spiral staircase and wind through bookshelves on the first floor before they are before a five-panel door. Crowley pushes it open. They enter a flat.

The living room looks like someone took an old lady’s house and a modernist architecture magazine and threw them into a blender. It works for the most part, he thinks as he takes in the cream walls, gray cement walls, rococo sofa, and mid-century chairs.

“Is that the Mona Lisa?” he asks and points at a sketch on the wall.

“Nah, it’s an early draft,” Nanny supplies offhandedly. “C’mon, your room is through here.”

“Why do I need to see that now?” he asks but pauses to yawn.

Nanny gives him a knowing smile, “Just a guess. Maybe you just want to jump on the bed?”

He pushes a door open to show off a small room. A single bed in a green duvet dominates the room. It’s got tartan sheets that somehow remind Warlock of Aziraphale. A large cherry bureau stands in the corner next to a similar bookshelf.He wanders in and notes that his suitcase is already laying on the bed. Strange. He doesn’t remember bringing it upstairs?

His eye catches a photograph on the shelf. It’s him at about age four on Nanny’s lap. They’re seated next to Aziraphale at some fancy London political dinner. He traces the silver frame with his finger.

Beside this are a series of books on dinosaurs, astronomy, crime investigation, and Lego builds. Warlock’s tired fingers are tempted by each for a different reason.

The shelf above this one is sort of shine. He sees a series of air-tight, museum-quality cases and frames. Some have pieces of parchment with children’s doodles and scrawl—but they’re old and not in any language that Warlock recognizes. There are misshapen clay animals and a small of yellowed, dried flowers. Here is a framed poem to “Mother”—it attempts at rhyme, but overall, just ends up being terrible. Another protective case covers a Victorian needlepoint of a snake. Beside all these is a Mother’s day card that Warlock made for Nanny in nursery school. His handprint is the green stem that leads up to multi-colored fingerprint flowers. He blinks.

“You kept this?” he asks, confused. “It’s just junk.”

Nanny hums and walks closer. He surveys the number of drawings and art pieces that children have made for him over the centuries. He tucks his hands into his jean pockets and rocks back onto his heels.

“You came home from nursery so excited to give that to me. You ran past Harriet and spilled juice all over yourself to get to me faster. We sat on the stairs and you showed me which finger made which petal. When I took you to nursery the next day, the teacher asked if she should discourage our relationship. She was worried that you were more attached to me than Harriet. I sat in the car for about an hour afterward trying to decide what to do.”

Warlock turns and faces Nanny. He’s tired, but he feels even more at sea at such a story.

“I don’t understand,” he says slowly. “What did you have to decide to do?”

Nanny reaches up and slides his sunglasses down his nose. His eyes are honest and yellow. Warlock remembers getting a lecture as a child about how Nanny’s eyes were not “kitty” eyes. He smiles and Nanny raises an eyebrow.

“I had to decide if I were going to kidnap you officially or continue to put up with those idiots who claim to be your parents.”

Warlock stares at Crowley.

“Wh—what!?” he yells.

Nanny stands very still. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. He finally blinks, very slowly.

“You’re my child, Warlock. I raised you.” Crowley blinks again, but it’s almost a conscious thing as if he’s not used to doing so. “Harriet and Thaddeus got to keep the titles that I deserved. That day, I almost took you away. I could have convinced you to call me ‘Mummy’ and we could have had a very different life.”

Warlock is breathless, “Why didn’t you?”

“That, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale comments from the doorway, “is due to me.” He enters the room and sits on the bed. “I convinced Crowley that it was a terrible idea and that you were both better off there. I was wrong, I think it’s safe to say.”

He pulls at his waistcoat and straightens his watch fob. “I owe you an apology, Warlock. You deserved better and Crowley would have done what was best by you. Forgive me.”

Warlock stares at Aziraphale before returning his gaze to Nanny. He still hasn’t moved much. He’s as still as a sunning snake.

“You wanted me? Really?” he asks, dangerously close to tears.

Crowley takes a stride across to Warlock and pulls him into a tight hug. “You’re my little prince. Of course, I want you—you deserve to be happy and safe. Even when you’re a brat.”

Exhaustion settles over him then and he sags in Crowley’s arms.

“Let’s get some rest, yeah?” Nanny asks.

Aziraphale starts to protest something about jetlag, but Crowley tucks Warlock under the duvet anyway. Warlock sleeps.

He wakes to the morning light. Somehow he’s slept for nearly twenty hours. He stumbles out of his bed and finds the toilet. He’s dressed in pajamas that he doesn’t recognize, although they fit him perfectly. He follows the smell of breakfast and finds Aziraphale putting the toast rack on the dining table.

“Good morning, young Master Warlock!” he chirps. “Would you like some tea?”

His tongue is heavy in his mouth. “Ugh, yes. Yes, please.” He sags into a chair. Aziraphale passes him a plate then a teacup.

Crowley waves at him from in front of the cooker. “Morning, hellspawn. How did you sleep?”

Warlock wipes his eyes. “Really hard. Did I sleep for an entire day?”

Aziraphale looks sheepish for some reason. “You appeared to need it! But never fear, my boy. We will make up for it with some exploration today! First, however, an omelet?”

They sit together and eat. Crowley samples toast from Aziraphale’s plate but mostly seems to only have coffee, even after being the one to do the cooking.

Warlock watches Nanny. He’s in yoga leggings and a black and gray sleeveless vest. He looks ready to work out.

“Are you, umm, leaving?” he asks uncomfortably.

Crowley sips his coffee. “Nah, need to get dressed though. Yoga’s on a zoom these days. Not as much fun. I usually freak people out with how flexible I am,” he grins mischievously. “Extra vertebrae, ya know?”

Warlock stares. “What?”

Nanny sighs. “Human brains are so strange. You believe that a fat man breaks into your homes once a year to drop off gifts, but when the truth smacks you in the face.” His voice drifts off. “Aziraphale’s an angel and I’m a serpent demon. Remember?”

And suddenly, Warlock does. How many times has Nanny told him that?

“Oh. Yeah. Right. I forgot.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and gives a reproachful look at Nanny. “Why must you torture the child like that? He won’t remember in fifteen minutes.”

“I will,” Warlock declares.

“Nah, you won’t. Silly mortals,” Nanny teases. “I was thinking we could be tourists today. Some places are opened back up.”

Aziraphale is delighted. “The Imperial War Museum has limited capacity, but I think it would make a splendid outing!”

About an hour later, they make their way out into the city. Wearing masks is tedious, but it’s so much better than being at home. Crowley wanders through the exhibits without paying much attention. Instead, Nanny seems to be completely focused on Aziraphale and Warlock. Every reaction is cataloged. He smiles if they enjoy something. Once, Warlock catches Nanny taking photos with his mobile secretly.

Warlock leans over to see the portrait that Nanny took of him. He’s staring up at a Spitfire that hangs from the ceiling. He looks happy. It’s good a photograph of him.

“Faces get fuzzy after a few hundred years,” Crowley admits and it jumpstarts that memory for Warlock again. Right. He’s a demon. How had Warlock forgotten that? He frowns.

“You’ll forget me?” Warlock asks, quietly.

Nanny shakes his head. “I remember every one of my children. Some of their faces are… less clear than I’d like. I still dream of them though.”

Aziraphale is a few steps away. Judging by his body language, he can hear everything that Nanny is saying. Warlock looks between them.

“Did you have other kids together?” he asks.

Aziraphale chokes. Crowley gives a serpentine grin. “Nah, you’re our first kid together.” He grin softens into sadness. “I don’t even think that the angel met any of my other children.”

Nanny looks at Aziraphale, who twists his fingers together in anxiety. “What about that little one, after the Flood?”

“Ninbanda?” Nanny gives a light smile, one full of bittersweet happiness. “She was a good girl. Yeah, I guess you did meet one of my kids then.”

Aziraphale looks up at the suspended airplanes above their heads. “Didn’t she end up as a Queen?” he tries to ask this without making it sound like judgment or curiosity.

Nanny grins at Warlock. “She did in the city of Ur. Had three sons, but died in childbirth… she cursed me in those last minutes.” Nanny’s voice is distant and heartbroken. “They always do.” And he strides away with his long legs, leaving them behind him and a bit shellshocked.

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale makes Warlock write up a report on his new knowledge of World War Two on the Homefront and submit it to his World History teacher. She’s so pleased that she substitutes it for another assignment. Warlock knows it’s just to give Nanny a chance to sulk. He’s withdrawn and morose for the rest of the night.

The next morning, though, Crowley makes them scrambled eggs and sausage before chasing them out for a walk in St. James Park. Aziraphale seems to know better than to bring up the previous afternoon’s topic, but Warlock charges right in.

“I won’t curse you, Nanny.”

He stutters in his long, smooth gait. “Oh, what’s that, hellspawn?”

“I’ll never curse you.” He fingers the snake charm that hangs from his flip phone. It’s in his pocket. “You’re my… mum.”

Crowley stares at him. His mouth opens and closes a number of times before he pulls Warlock into a tight hug. Aziraphale strolls ahead of them, hands behind his back, acting as if he isn’t pleased with the turn of events. As if to get away from the emotion, Nanny buys them all ice cream (or ice lollies) and they laugh at how the pigeons and squirrels chase tourists.

The days pass the same way. Nanny makes him check in with his teachers and, once, makes him text home. Warlock has never been happier. Then Harriet calls.

“I just need… tell Tony your flight details,” she snorts, sounding drunk. “Text him? Or call ‘em.”

It’s the cold water that reminds him that the holiday must end. Nanny disagrees. He piles them into his Bentley and drives them to Cornwall to some tiny bay where they splash in ankle-deep blue water and get sand in their shirts.

Aziraphale wanders, barefoot, down the shore looking for shells, while Nanny attempts to dig a deep hole in the sand. Warlock drops onto the wet sand beside him.

“I have to go home tomorrow,” he notes, sadly.

Crowley stops digging and looks up at him. “That’s up to you.”

“It’s an election year,” Warlock parrots, sounding much like Mister Thaddeus.

“Neat,” Nanny snipes sarcastically. “So what?”

“I’ll need to be home,” Warlock continues, slowly. “I’m supposed to be there for election year stuff.”

“Why? Do you enjoy being paraded about? Is that what you want?” Crowley tosses his sand shovel into the bottom of the hole and sits on the edge of his little crater.

“Why is it all the people that I love are obsessed with ‘doing their duty’ to people who absolutely do not deserve it?” He rubs a sand-crusted hand through his hair. “Didn’t I raise you with more sense?” he asks incredulously.

Warlock feels a shred of guilt. “You always told me not to listen to idiots. You said I’d grind their bones into ash one day.”

Nanny sinks backward onto his elbows. It’s an awkward position, but he seems more relaxed this way. He heaves a great, dramatic sigh.

“I was wrong on the grinding portion, but not so much on ignoring stupidity.” Nanny looks out to sea and traces the cliffs with his eyes. “If you want to go back to DC tomorrow, then I’ll get you there. If you don’t, then we’ll work something else out. You’re more than welcome to stay.”

Warlock digs into the sand with his toes. He does not look in Nanny’s direction.

“I’ll go back to Washington, I guess.”

“Is that what you want?” Nanny asks, his voice is distant. He is still not looking at Warlock.

“I should go.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Warlock does not answer. He hauls himself off and goes to stand in the cold ocean waves again. When the sun begins to set, they pile into the Bentley and head for London. Crowley speeds, dangerously fast, but no one comments. The ride is solemn and heavy.

When they return to the bookshop, Warlock will remember packing his suitcase and driving to the airport. What really happens will defy any human logic, but he does remember the hugs and parting words.

“You ring if you need anything, now, dear boy,” from Aziraphale.

“You’re still my kid. Even if you’re far away. When you’re ready to come home, let me know,” fiercely from Nanny. “The charm. Remember? Just touch it. I’ll have you home as soon as you think it.”

Warlock nods and smiles. “Thanks.” He pauses and then tests the word out, “Thanks, Mum.”

Nanny squeezes him tightly and presses a kiss to his head.

As they part, Aziraphale whispers into his ear. “He’ll make you forget it all if it’s too much. If you need to forget us to be happy in America, he can take it from you.”

Warlock is stunned. Before he can give a reply, magic dances over him.

And he dissolves and travels across the Atlantic with no memory of doing so. Being in Washington hurts after being so cared for and paid attention to. He has a choice, he knows. He’s afraid he’ll curse Nanny if he remembers those golden days for too long.

In three days, the memory of being in the UK with an angel and demon disappears completely.

* * *

Warlock Dowling is twenty and studying mathematics at Sanford. He’s heading to a study group when his phone rings. He usually doesn’t answer his father’s calls, but for some reason, today he does.

“You need to come home,” Thaddeus says. It’s an order. The flight is already booked and there will be a car waiting for him at Dulles Airport.

Warlock argues.

Instead of listening (which is not unusual), Thaddeus is succinct. “Your mother is sick. Come home.”

There is not much more to the phone call. Someone from his father’s campaign begins to talk in the background and Thaddeus rings off quickly. One of the campaign members texts Warlock the flight details. He grabs a bag and begins to pack with one hand and type an email to his professors with the other.

It’s a hellish voyage. The first leg takes him from the Oakland Airport to San Jose. He has to run across the terminal to make his connection to O’Hare. He sits in Chicago for six hours. One benefit is that they have a salon, so he gets his hair tided up. Then the last leg, a red-eye flight, which has so few people on it that Warlock changes rows and stretches his legs out on the two empty seats. He dozes until they land. The driver is easy to locate because she is holding a sign with his name scrawled on it. Thankfully, she seems to understand he is exhausted and skips the small talk.

His parents, on the other hand, do not wait for him to catch his breath. They expect him to join them at the dining room table as soon as he walks into their home.

Harriet has never been one to mince words. She gets right to the point. Warlock hasn’t even gotten the cream mixed properly into his coffee before she’s saying “diagnosis”, terminal”, “advanced beyond hope”, “Karnofsky performance scores”, and “white blood cells and lymphocyte counts make for a high Palliative prognostic score”. It’s like she’s rattling off these words to distance herself from her prognosis.

The knowledge slams into him like a freight train. “Ho—how—how long?” he stutters.

The three months she quotes is not very long at all. Strangely, she’s so businesslike. And maybe that’s how she can get through this? She wrote a script and stuck to it. Harriet even lets him know that there’s an official press conference scheduled at noon. No doubt, that is scripted too.

And then they sit there and look at him. As if they expect him to simply take all this in and then be able to put on his Public Relations Face and smile for the press. Warlock gasps, deep and shuttering. His hands tremble.

“Harr— _Mother_ ,” he cries and reaches out for her.

And all her carefully constructed facade falls apart. She sobs and pats his hand. She will not hug him. She’s not the hugging type.

“Oh Warlock,” she coos. “It’ll be all right, I promise. I’ve come to terms with this and, while it’s scary, it’s a chance for me to reevaluate my priorities. I’m really focusing on those.”

It occurs to him that she has never comforted him before. He shouldn’t be surprised that it centers on her.

Shower, shave, comb, iron, and dress: it’s time for the press conference on the steps of their brownstone. The press is there in spades with microphones and cameras. Warlock stands behind his parents in a sharp navy suit.

“Good afternoon,” Thaddeus begins. He’s all politics and charm. “Thank you all for joining our family.” And he rattles off the news with big, expressive eyes. He holds Harriet’s hand and looks at her in the deep, meaningful pauses. “Harriet and I are agreed that these last moments as a couple and a family together will be special.”

Warlock offers a grim smile to his mother, who looks back at him for support. The smile does not reach her eyes. And then Thaddeus goes off-script.

“With that in mind,” and he drops his wife’s hand to grip the sides of the lectern, “I have decided to continue my presidential campaign.”

Warlock whips in surprise. His father talks on, but the viral moment that will be replayed on repeat on all news stations highlights not his words, but their emotions. The horror on Warlock’s face and then utter heartbreak on Harriet’s. The commentary will focus on how Mr. Dowling changed his mind at the last moment and did not suspend his campaign as was planned. They will break down the text of the speech which had been uploaded by his campaign team at the moment he stepped up to the lectern to the one he gave. They label him cold and heartless. Three months, was the best prognosis according to the speech, and he couldn’t even stay with her for those. _Selfish_.

The campaign donations dry up immediately and Thaddeus will eventually cave under such pressure. Immediately afterward, his mistress publishes a tell-all book. Harriet reads it cover-to-cover and only throws the book across the room eleven times in total. Warlock retrieves it every time and asks if he can throw it away. She never lets him.

The book kills Thaddeus’s political career, but it really kills Harriet’s spirit. She tires easily. Anger wears on her.

She’s drinking again, after seven years sober. She slurs when she speaks, “He was banging her while I was pregnant with you.”

Warlock holds her hand, stiffly. He has no words. Honestly, they have no relationship, but he’s used to this drunken weeping. It’s been the symphony of his childhood.

He takes a leave of absence from university. Instead of manifolds and graph theory, his brain swirls with opioid doses as painkillers, advanced directives, and standards of comfort. He sits at her side while his father hides in his office, licking his wounds. Warlock watches Harriet when she cannot stay awake, holds her when she cannot keep anything down, and hums to her when she no longer cares about the outside world.

One day, she starts telling him stories. Nothing spectacular, certainly not about grinding the world under anyone’s heel, but tales that are important to her none the less. He learns about where she grew up in Maryland and family trips to Ocean City and the boardwalk. He hears about her college days and her roommates. One would be her maid-of-honor at her wedding. He heard about the gowns she wore to gala dinners and theater debuts. She does not tell him about his childhood. She was under the influence of the bottle for much of it. He was raised by a nanny, anyway.

He barely remembers her, Nanny Ashtoreth—wait, was that her name?—, almost as if she’s been erased from his memory. As his mother dozes, he thinks of her Scottish brogue and dark sunglasses. Subdued purple, waxy lipstick. Auburn curls under a proper hat. But there was more, wasn’t there? He thinks hard and pulls up visions of a bookshop, a Mother’s day card, and the ocean. The more he thinks about it, though, the further the memories slip away.

His thoughts cannot stay on the nanny for long. Another tell-all story is sold to a newspaper. Another mistress. And two love children. Warlock has siblings. It’s a dramatic blow for Harriet. Her doctors use mellow tones to remind her that she needs to fight. When the third woman and her daughter come forward, Harriet gives in.

Warlock holds her hand as her skin cools and blues. Her breaths are slow. She takes long pauses between each inhale. She gurgles. Thaddeus is not in the room when she passes. Warlock is alone with a hospice nurse.

Harriet is cremated and memorialized. Warlock ignores his father as he speaks to the crowd. They murmur and shift—the cheating bastard rattling on about the victimized wife. (These same people are not hesitant to shake hands with the politician—what a photo op!) Warlock is not spared the discomfort of standing in the receiving line either. There are so many strangers. All want to shake or pat his hand and kiss his cheek. He looks over some old woman’s shoulder and he sees _her_.

She is in a long, black dress with a sharp v-neckline. It’s simple, save for the slit up to the knee. This is accentuated with a prim row of buttons that continue up her hip. She is wearing a black velvet Cracked Egg hat with pearl beads stitched on like polka dots. It has a delicate veil and a dramatic rhinestone brooch over her left ear. From the tinted glasses to the black-crocheted gloves, it’s _Nanny_.

At her side is a posh man in a light grey suit. He’s familiar too, but Warlock cannot say why. He blinks and suddenly realizes it’s his old gardener and tutor. But there is another flash of bookshop and Warlock is confused again—something about a hurricane?

Nanny is walking on the man’s arm down the line of Warlock’s relatives. The man offers condolences to them all, but Nanny has not taken her eyes off of Warlock. She does not speak to any of them.

Thaddeus sees her then and exclaims, almost seductively, “Nanny Ashtoreth.”

He holds out his hand for hers, but she ignores it. She does release her companion’s arm and glides right past Thaddeus. Instead, she reaches out for Warlock. She takes both of his hands in hers and searches his face.

“Hello, hellspawn,” she says so lovingly and softly that he breaks. He throws himself into her arms and sobs openly. She wraps around him and cups the back of his head like he’s still an infant. She rocks him and soothes him.

The companion (Francis is his name! Warlock suddenly remembers) guides them to a quiet corner away from prying eyes. He cries until his chest hurts and his eyes burn. Then there’s a handkerchief pressed into his hand from Brother Francis. After several swipes at his eyes and a blow of his nose, he can smell Nanny’s perfume. It’s a sudden scent memory: he’s back in his nursery in England. He’s in Nanny’s lap as they read about constellations. Her perfume is Vetiver and blossoms.

“Nanny,” he whimpers, “you came.”

She steps back and strokes her hands from his shoulders down to his elbows. “Of course, my little prince.”

There is some sort of reception planned, but Nanny insists that Warlock go along with them instead. Warlock should be obedient and stay with his relatives. Instead, he agrees to join them. Nanny leans on Francis’s arm but holds out her hand for Warlock to take as if they were crossing the street when he was six. He takes it obediently. She squeezes his hand.

They take an Uber to some upscale hotel and Brother Francis leads them directly into the restaurant.

“A table. A quiet one, if you please, my dear,” Francis says to the maître d. It’s not an order, but somehow it is at the same time. They’re seated in record time and immediately brought a bottle of white wine that looks expensive (but no one ever ordered it aloud).

Nanny takes off her gloves and neatly arranges them in her lap under her napkin.She nods to the server to pour her a drink but keeps her eyes on Warlock.

“Order for me, won’t you, angel?” she asks.

There are so many questions Warlock would like to ask. These are all lost watching Francis putter over the menu. He makes little pleased noises as he reads. Warlock looks over to Nanny, who has yet to blink. She continues to watch Warlock. She’s drinking in his face.

“You’re studying maths?” she asks. She never looks, but she finds her glass gracefully. She drinks deeply.

“Yes,” he answers, but he can’t help himself. He ignores the menu and reaches out for Nanny’s hand again.

“You’re enjoying it? I always liked linear molecular geometry,” she takes his outreached hand and smiles tenderly.

Warlock hears Brother Francis ordering pretty much the entire menu. He focuses on Nanny’s question. “I wasn’t taking any Chemistry classes. All mathematics for me.”

“They always went hand-in-hand for me,” Nanny replies. She looks over to the man at her side and offers another gentle and love-filled smile. “I think Aziraphale wanted you to go for a Classics degree. He loves Latin and Greek… and Japanese. And French. And Italian. And, well, you get the idea.”

“Not really much to do with Latin, in today’s job market,” Warlock says and frowns. He sounds like his father.

Francis sputters. “Not much to do!? With Latin!? My dear boy, there are translations and archeological digs and—“ Nanny rolls her eyes dramatically as Brother Francis waves his hands. “Academia at the very least!”

Warlock is about to apologize and take it back. He’s never seen the former gardener this excited about anything, sister slug included. Nanny pats his hand. “Don’t mind him. He gets worked up about the written word.”

“I am not worked up,” Francis retorts primly. “I just fail to see why so few humans—I mean people—value antiquities and its languages.” He reaches to the center of the table and retrieves one of the rolls from the breadbasket. “Do tuck in. They’re known for their Parker House Rolls here. And the butter is French. It’s handmade using the malaxage technique!” He slathers butter on his roll and takes a delicate bite.

Warlock is not expecting such a reaction. Brother Francis looks like he is simultaneously having an orgasm and a stroke. He moans and his eyes roll back in his head. Nanny is not surprised in the least. She squeezes Warlock’s hand and sips her wine.

“What’s a malaxage?” Warlock finally asks.

Francis lights up. “Oh! Kneading to remove the water from the butter. They use a wooden wheel! It’s lovely. Oh, you can taste the grass in the cream! You must try some, my dear.” He uses his knife to spear a bit of butter which he scrapes onto Nanny’s plate.

Nanny squeezes Warlock’s hand again before she lets go to lift her fork. She takes a very small portion of butter on her tines and tastes it. Warlock follows her example and claims a roll for himself. The butter is quite tasty. His mobile rings. Warlock glances at the screen before sending it to voicemail. He cannot talk to his father right now.

“What did you want me to be?” he asks Nanny. She tops off her wine glass from the bottle.

“For a career?” she clarifies. He nods.

“Well,” she draws, “at three, you wanted to be on the fire brigade. Then a cookie baker. You liked boats for a while—oh, and rockets. I wouldn’t have minded knowing another astronaut.”

“And there is always a shortage of good bakers,” Francis adds.

Warlock is momentarily stunned. He does not remember any of these dreams of future jobs. It’s like someone has shared a part of him that he did not know he’d lost.

“Do you like maths?” Nanny inquires. It’s not even a beat after Brother Francis, as if this speed of conversation and banter is that usual.

“I do. It’s interesting. I could do a lot with it.” He takes a drink of his water. “I’d like to go into engineering someday.”

The server interrupts them. She is balancing a loaded tray, from which she pulls plate after plate. Brother Francis looks gleeful.

“Aziraphale,” Nanny says reflectively, “were you peckish?” Her eyebrow raises above her glasses.

“It just looks delectable!” he titters.

Warlock reaches for one of the plates. He serves himself some baked brie and spiced honey. Nanny selects a chilled clam and lobster claw from the bed of ice they arrived on. Francis is having some of everything. He moans over the crab cake.

“Nanny has been calling you a different name,” Warlock comments when he takes a bite. The cheese is nice.

Francis nods. “Aziraphale is my first name.” Nanny seems pleased with the answer. “You know Nanny also goes by Crowley.”

Warlock glances over at her. And suddenly something sparks.

“I came to see you during a hurricane. During… the pandemic? That can’t be right. I couldn’t have traveled—“ he stops speaking and stares at Nanny. She is chewing very slowly, awaiting his judgment or memory.

“I _did_. I came to see you both. You had a room ready for me. You were willing to let me stay.” He swings to turn and look at Fran— _Aziraphale_. “You were my tutor. No, you were… you own a bookshop?”

“All true, my dear boy,” Aziraphale agrees with a nod.

Warlock stares, gaping. He turns his attention to Nanny. “Your name is Crowley and you are a man.”

Nanny hums. “I _am_ Crowley, but I am whatever I am when I feel like it. If you’re confused, just call me a demon or a serpent. It seems to cover all the other bases.”

Warlock blinks. Nanny pulls down her sunglasses to look at him over the lens and another memory rocks him.

“You… you wanted to kidnap me and raise me as your son.”

Nanny does not blink and deja vu rolls over Warlock.

“You chose to forget those three weeks,” Crowley notes and her eyes are sad. “We wanted you to be happy. You decided to follow your ‘duty’. I wanted you to stay. I knew that you’d feel too guilty no matter what, so we gave you the option to forget.”

Aziraphale takes a sip of his wine and watches Warlock.

“The option to forget?” Warlock asks, his voice incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale and Nanny share a look. The waitress interrupts and refills their water.

Warlock rubs his tired eyes. They’re swollen from crying, but now they hurt as if his confusion has settled there.

“I don’t understand.”

“Humans rarely do,” Crowley replies.

She touches his shoulder and more memories surge. Turning into pixels and sound waves and traveling through a mobile. Serpent eyes behind sunglasses. His little human brain cannot cope. It jumps over these memories like a phonograph needle skipping on a record. He turns to the next possible topic that makes sense.

“What should I call you?” he asks her. She sighs.

“Whatever you’d like, although, ‘hey you’ gets a bit confusing in crowds,” she replies. She’s trying for levity, but it’s desperate.

“Crowley, am I pronouncing it correctly?” he offers it slowly, sounding out each letter.

Nanny smiles pleased again. “Mine isn’t the complicated one. Aziraphale indeed. Listening to him spell it over the phone is—“

The one with that name interrupts, “It is a perfectly suitable name. It’s not my fault no-one can bloody listen over the phone, my heart’s darling. All too busy with their car phones,” (here Nanny corrects him with “mobiles”,) “and their Twittergrams,” (here Nanny gapes like a fish, “I haven’t the faintest what to do with that, angel.”), “and their online reservation systems.”

Nanny whispers conspiringly to Warlock, “Not big on technology, you see. I’ve just gotten him to use a different browser than Internet Explorer.”

“It’s perfectly serviceable,” Aziraphale argues.Crowley grins snakeishly.

“Sure, angel.”

Warlock leans toward them now. “Were you together when I was a child?”

Nanny looks hunted, but Aziraphale answers for them both, “Crowley was in love with me for years before I caught up.” It’s said generously and kindly.

“No, hellspawn, it’s pretty recent,” Nanny says, taking a slurp of a raw oyster. “For us, anyway.”

“You love my Nanny?” Warlock interrogates Aziraphale, but his voice cracks. He might as well still be ten-years-old. My Nanny indeed.

“Yes, my dear. I love her very much.” Nanny blushes from neck to ears. She tosses back the rest of her wine and then grabs the bottle to pour another glass.

Their conversation, which was not bustling, to begin with, slows as they all eat. Warlock feels his mobile trill again and again. Calls. Texts. Alerts of voicemails. He ignores it all. Luckily, he finds that he is hungry at that moment, something that has been unusual in these past days. The brie is creamy and the shrimp mild.

“Will you go back to California?” Aziraphale asks when he the need for conversation.

Warlock picks up his fork and turns it over in his hand. “I’d like to, but I just feel…” The words hang there. No one speaks for long moments.

Nanny reaches over again and rests her hand overtop his. “Have you talked to someone?”

Warlock nearly drops the fork, “Like, like a—ah—“ he stammers, “a therapist?”

Nanny smiles at him, lovingly. “Yes, my prince.”

He cannot come up with a response. He just stammers and taps the fork on the table.

“You know,” Nanny says, her tone warm and sweet. Her vowels draw out long and slow, “Mister Thaddeus had some strange ideas about therapist and masculinity when I worked for him.”

Warlock looks up at her sharply. She always knew clever ways to get him to talk.

“Yeah,” he answers shakily, “yeah, he still does.”

And that’s it for that line of conversation, but it doesn’t feel stilted. They finish their meal chatting about Aziraphale’s time at Cambridge and Crowley’s time raising another set of children. Warlock’s phone chimes again and again. It’s ignored. Instead, the three of them laugh and smile, but when Warlock falls into silences and his frown nearly hurts, they let him grieve. The grief is so convoluted. Harriet and he had so little in way of a relationship before she was sick. He rubs his eyes.

When Nanny picks up the check, Warlock tries to argue. Aziraphale leans forward and pats him on the knee.

“Best let her have it; she’ll fight you,” he warns jovially.

There are another rounds of alerts from Warlock’s mobile. He glances down. His father and his father’s former campaign manager have each called. His cousin has texted.

Aziraphale stands and stretches. “Warlock, my dear, would you like to stay here tonight? There’s a bed for you.”

Warlock considers it. It sings with the same deja vu as Crowley asking him to stay without using those words from ten years in the past. He wonders if this room will be a shrine to his and other children’s childhoods.

It’s early evening, there is no excuse to go home. His aunts and grandparents are there though. Several more texts come in. He ignores them.

“Angel will want to order room service,” Nanny predicts, as they walk for the exit, “and we could stay up and chat? Game of gin rummy? Watch some old movies?”

Warlock slows. If they go left, he can call a ride. If they go right, he can spend the night with his childhood nanny and gardener. His phone rings. This time, he grimaces at Nanny and answers.

“Hi, Thaddeus,” he greets.

“Warlock, for the love of Christ, can’t you call me ‘Dad’ right now? Get home. Immediately. People are beginning to talk,” Thaddeus begins, all political polish, but with an aggressive edge.

“Sorry, I’m catching up with some old friends. I’ll see you soon.” And he hangs up. “You’ll have to remind me of the rules of gin rummy, Nanny,” he says as he shoves his mobile into his pocket.

The lift ride up to their suite is relaxed. Nanny steps out of her heels and leans over the pick them up. Aziraphale looks at her with unadulterated love. He unbuttons and slides his coat off and hangs it over Nanny’s shoulders. The look she gives him back is just as loving. It makes Warlock’s breath catch. His parents never looked at one another like that.

Nanny’s toes are varnished black and hidden in stockings. It makes Warlock chuckle. He’s not sure he knows why. Aziraphale leads them down the hallway to their suite and lets them in. It’s one like those from his childhood—two bedrooms connected by a living area. Nanny tosses her heels in the door of one room and directs Warlock to the other.

“This is your room; shower’s through there,” she dictates in the same tone that she used to tell five-year-old him to clean his teeth.

It’s a luxurious room and there is little question that they selected this room because they wanted him. It makes something squeeze inside his gut and he is suddenly weeping. Nanny gathers him up again and Aziraphale’s coat covers both of them like a cloak.

“I should have stayed with you,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, Nanny. I am so sorry.”

“Hush, now, my sweet hellspawn,” she strokes down his back with an open palm. When he pulls back from her, her collarbones are wet. She strokes his hair.

“There now,” she whispers, “there now. Nothing to forgive, my prince.”

Aziraphale is moving behind them in the living room. Warlock hears him ring down for room service, just as Nanny predicted. She tucks his hair behind his ear and the skin around her eyes crinkle delicately.

“Shower, Warlock,” and she infuses such love into these words that it actually makes his heart squeeze again. “Your things are already here.”

This gives him pause, but she is across the living room and into the other bedroom. She drags her fingers across Aziraphale’s shoulder as she passes.

Warlock closes the door and heads for the en-suite. It’s all marble and chrome with plush towels and a fancy dressing gown.The shower is hot and the water jets strong on his shoulders. All of this crying is taking it out of him and the shower might be the final shove into falling apart. He staggers out with a towel around his waist and another around his hair. True to Crowley’s word, his shaving kit and his clothing is all here. It makes Warlock pause. Then, it seems too confusing so he pulls out a pair of track pants and a shirt.

Aziraphale is organizing a trio of mugs and silver teapots of tea and cocoa on the coffee table. There’s an assortment of cakes and scones too. Nanny comes out of their room dressed in black and red polka-dot pajamas, her long hair loose down her shoulder and back. She’s still in sunglasses, but she fingers them uncomfortably. She slides languidly down onto the floor in front of Aziraphale and leans back. He automatically begins to stroke his fingers through her hair.

“Joining us, Warlock, my boy?”

Warlock sinks into the sofa next to Aziraphale.

“Tea? Cocoa?” Warlock takes far too long to come to an answer. “Cocoa, I think,” Aziraphale decides for him and fills a mug. Then he presses it into Warlock’s hands.

Next, he pours a cup of tea to which he adds cream. This he gives to Nanny. He makes himself a cocoa and leans back himself. He sips from the mug with one hand and strokes Nanny’s hair with the other.

The television is not turned on, yet, somehow, soft, warm classical music drifts from the speakers. Warlock is simply too confused and too tired to consider it. He drinks his cocoa.

He nearly sloshes it when Nanny reaches up and cups his knee. “Time for bed, hellspawn.”

“It’s too early to sleep,” Warlock grumbles, his speech slurring with exhaustion. He takes another drink, but it’s sloppy. He decides to put the mug down, but Aziraphale intercepts it gently. He sets it on the table.

Nanny sits up on her knees and leans against Aziraphale’s legs. “Warlock.” And her voice offers no chance for argument. “Bed.”

He nods, more obedient than he ever was under her care, and pulls himself off the couch. He stands there, unsteady and weary. He looks down and Nanny pulls off her sunglasses.

Somehow, just like his luggage’s magical arrival, her eyes do not surprise him. There’s a past memory floating there. He’s seen them before when he was much younger. He smiles at her before he wobbles into the room and climbs into the bed. He’s so tired, but he knows he will not fall asleep. Then, Nanny leans in his doorway and begins to hum a lullaby. And like all those nights when he was little, his eyes slide shut, his mind quiets down, and he’s asleep.

Warlock wakes much later in the morning than usual. He smells coffee. After a piss and a splash of water to his face, he makes his way out into the living area. Aziraphale is seated at the dining table with a book open in his hand and a teacup and saucer in reach.

“Good morning, Master Warlock,” he greets quietly. “Coffee and tea are on the buffet. Some pastries too. The muffins are tasty, but the scones are dry.” He squishes up his nose a little as he says this, before looks back to his reading.

Warlock pours himself a cup of coffee with a splash of cream and contemplates a jam-filled pastry. It might be raspberry (which is acceptable), but might be strawberry (a bit too sweet in his mind). He decides to just start with the coffee.

He sits in the open seat next to Aziraphale, but so he can look out at the skyline beyond the window. The morning sun reflects off the other buildings’ windows and an occasional pigeon roosts or flutters in his line of sight.

“Did you rest, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, just as softly as before.

Warlock nods, the slow and sleepy reaction of someone waking up. Aziraphale smiles knowingly and returns to his book. Once the cup is finished, Warlock decides to try a second-rate scone with his refill. He dips the scone in the coffee. Not too bad, actually.

Aziraphale takes his glasses off and sets them inside his book. Both of these are set on the table and he smiles at Warlock as he stands.

“Time to wake the beast,” he comments, grabbing another cup and filling it with black, rich coffee. He then carries it into the other room. Warlock watches Aziraphale disappear out of view to open the curtains. Then he reappears at the bed and the Nanny-shaped lump under the covers. He sets the coffee on the bedside table and speaks to Nanny in a low, quiet voice. A long, white arm jerks out from under the duvet and grabs blindly for the mug. Satisfied that Nanny is awake, Aziraphale returns to the main room. He closes the door behind him.

“I know grief can be physically exhausting. I also know that being around people can be… taxing. I also know that sometimes it is a balm to see that life goes on and that others care for you.” He brings the teapot over to the table and refills his cup. He moves with smooth, even movements that Warlock does not remember from his time as a gardener. “I was thinking we might be tourists today,” he offers. “National Gallery of Art has an exhibit of Raphael’s sketches and a lovely collection of nature paintings. I’d like for you to join us, if you’re up for it.”

Warlock is about to answer with the bedroom door is thrown open dramatically. Nanny’s hair is wild, some curling around her shoulders and some standing straight on end. Her pajama top is misbuttoned and she has to pull the bottoms up as they slide down her hips. She is holding her empty coffee cup out in front of her.

She gives a groan and wipes at her face.

“Coffee, my heart’s darling?” Aziraphale chirps.

Nanny groans again and practically falls into a chair. Aziraphale brings the coffee pot over and refills Crowley’s cup. He pats her hand as he sits down.

“I was just asking Warlock about potentially visiting the museum today,” Aziraphale reports reflectively.

Nanny grunts and drinks.

“It might be nice,” Warlock begins. “I spent a lot of time at Harriet’s bedside. We didn’t go out very often. She didn’t care.” Warlock’s voice fades out.

Aziraphale is watching Warlock very closely. Nanny is not awake enough to follow the grief. Instead, with another mostly-asleep, blind grasp, she drops her hand onto Warlock’s shoulder. She squeezes. Warlock wipes at his eyes. He doesn’t want to start weeping again.

“I feel so… wrong.” Warlock starts. “She was never my mother. Why do I feel so sad?”

“Angel,” Nanny grumbles, her voice garbled, “where’s the book?”

Aziraphale produces a beat-up paperback book from the buffet behind them. Strange, there was not a book there before. Warlock dismisses this and focuses on the item itself. The pages are yellowed. Warlock leans across the table and out from under Nanny’s arm to take it from Aziraphale. It’s not an old book, maybe fifteen years since it was new. _Grieving Your Neglectful Parent: The Hidden Challenges to Bereavement of an Adult Survivor of Emotional Abuse_ is clearly well-read.

Crowley rubs her face again and clears her throat. “It was a good starting place for me. I thought,” she looks into her coffee cup, “it might help.”

Warlock clutches the book. “Your parents were…” he lets the words drift away with his thought unfinished. He’s been doing that more and more frequently.

“My mother did what she thought was right,” Nanny begins, her voice strained. She appears suddenly awake and her golden eyes are pooled with tears. Aziraphale reaches over and takes her hand in his. “She threw me out when I was too young to really understand what I’d done wrong. I’d hung out with the wrong people, you see. I asked too many questions. She never forgave me; unforgivable, that’s me.”

Aziraphale rubs the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. He is pained by that last statement. He looks like he wants to protest it, but doesn’t know how to.

Nanny looks up and holds Warlock’s gaze. “I promised I would never treat a child like that. I swore to myself that I would love as best I could. I tried to show you that, but I’m certain I screwed you up too. I wanted you to come and live with us so badly, but you didn’t want that. Please don’t hold it against me. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I wanted what was best for you.”

Warlock thinks back on the strange stories and songs. There was the tricycle thing and the “we do not say ‘please’ to a Duke of Hell, my prince”. Yeah, she probably screwed him up some.

“I always knew you loved me,” Warlock states. It’s genuine. “I hated it when they sent you away. I missed you.”

“And I you, little hellspawn.”

“I couldn’t come live with you. I just… it wasn’t right. But I wanted to.”

“We wanted you, Warlock. I hope you know that.”

“Crowley was willing to kidnap you, of course, you remember that, don’t you? Hmm.” Aziraphale hums as his voice drifts off. “We hoped that you’d choose to remember us. Even if you didn’t want to stay. I’m sorry we forced you into that decision.”

Warlock shifts in his chair. “I forgot you because I wanted to come too badly. I just… knew I couldn’t. I thought, then I mean, that if I left, no one would check in on Harriet. I was right. I mean, I was the only one who cared when she was dying.”

Aziraphale smiles sadly. He squeezes Nanny’s hand then stands. He leans over once more and kisses her cheek before walking behind Warlock. He leans down and kisses the top of his head. It’s surprising, but Warlock finds it welcome. It is paternal in a way he’s never experienced before.

“You have a big heart, my dear boy. The love we give to those who do not deserve it is the best proof that we can be more than we think we can be. I hope that you grieve here, and never forget her, but do not idolize her. Harriet Dowling was a challenging person.” He gives Warlock another kiss to the hair.

“I am going to shave,” Aziraphale announces, stretching and then twining his fingers together over his belly. “Then we shall try out this American gallery. There’s a nice grill everyone talks about near there. I hear they have steak.”

And he heads off to shave.

“I wish you’d called when you found out Harriet was ill. I’d have come,” Crowley whispers.

“I didn’t even remember your face until a few weeks ago. I’m sorry, Nanny. I didn’t mean to forget you.” He feels his throat tighten.

“That was probably for the best, Warlock. I didn’t want you to spend your life feeling split into two people. I’ve been there. It’s not pleasant.” She drinks her coffee and stares at the book in Warlock’s hands. He opens it to a creased section. There are annotations in pencil on the page.

_“The adult victim is healing both as an adult and as a child. The adult has the cognitive ability to recognize the discrepancies between what a childhood should be and what they actually survived. For you, this may mean that you have always said your parent was doing what they had to do. Perhaps you used your filial duty—honor thy mother and father, for example—to excuse their behavior. Instead, you’ve substituted another person into your memories. A gentle, loving, forgiving parent. As the adult victim looks back into their survival story, they know this is a lie that they (and you) created to survive. Now, you are losing the person who never existed.”_

Nanny’s handwriting lines the margins. She has written: _the nurturing parent she was to others vs. the judge/jury/executioner for me_

Warlock gazes up at her. She looks resigned.

“She was good to some of my siblings. Others of us, we had a different mother.” She shreds the remains of Aziraphale’s disappointing scone that he’s left on his plate.

“Harriet,” here she pauses and tries again, “was an alcoholic. She was emotionally absent from your life. I want you to know that some of that was postpartum depression. I tried to get a home health nurse to see to her, but that wasn’t welcome. I should have pushed harder. I am sorry—to you and her—for that.”

Crowley presses her finger into the crumbs she made until they stick, and then dusts them back on to the plate with her thumb. She repeats the process. “The alcohol got really bad until Aziraphale stepped in. I don’t know what he said, but he got her attention. He was her sponsor for… _years_ , I don’t know how many.”

“Aziraphale was her AA sponsor?” This is shocking. Warlock looks back toward the closed bedroom door.

“Not for booze, him. Other substances. It’s a tremendous source of guilt for him. He’s very religious and it—well, that’s his story to tell. Anyway, he understood and helped your mum get sober. She cut him out of her life when your dad’s political life got to be so busy. He fretted, but that’s life. People grow and people change.”

Crumbs sprinkle back down onto the plate again like snow. “He wrote to her every month. I doubt she got the letters since I do not think you got mine.”

Warlock is staggered. “You wrote me?” he turns this over in his mind and she sips the dregs of her coffee.

“Of course you did. You sent me notecards and postcards when you just went away on holiday, sometimes just because you were off for the day.” He rubs his eyes again. He fidgets with the book, “I’m sorry, I never got those. I’d have written you back.”

“I know you would have. That’s why I knew you didn’t receive them. I take it you never got the gifts then either?”

Warlock shakes his head.

“That’s a shame.”

It makes Warlock angry. She is a nanny. She is not from money—to send him gifts would have been a financial hardship. To have them, what, thrown away? It’s disrespectful. It’s hurtful.

“Anyway, I am going to get ready for the day. Do not feel obligated to join us if you’re not interested. Aziraphale gets very excited about museums, but he never forgets responsibility to family. If he’s invited you, instead of suggesting you return home, he thinks it’s best for your wellbeing. Consider that, as you decide.”

Warlock grabs Nanny’s hand as she rises.

“That’s why he made you send me home, isn’t it? Back in 2020. It’s why he talked you out of kidnapping me, right?”

Crowley pats his hand. “It’s his story to tell you. Just know that he understands the struggle between deciding to follow one’s heart and be loved, or to follow one’s duty and be overlooked.”

Warlock peruses his previous question, “But that’s it, right? That’s why you sent me home.”

“You chose to go home, Warlock. I wanted you to stay.”

“You were the adult!” he snaps, his voice rising. “You knew how bad things were at home! Why didn’t you make me stay?”

Crowley sits back down into her chair. “Free will is a gift, Warlock. I do not say that lightly. You understood what life was like in Washington, but you saw what it could have been like in London. You chose.”

“I was a child! I didn’t know better!”

Nanny stares at him. Aziraphale speaks from behind them.

“You made your choice, child. You are always welcome with us. You will always be Crowley’s son and you know that. But you wanted to be Thaddeus and Harriet’s son, in the same way. You came back to America to try and teach them how to do that.” Aziraphale has shaving cream on the peak of his chin. “I saw it in your eyes as we parted. You thought you could take those same feelings that we had for you and transplant them into the Dowlings. I’m sorry it didn’t work out that way.”

“Free will,” Crowley notes.

Warlock wants to scream. He wants to throw himself onto the floor and kick and hit. It’s a juvenile reaction, but he can’t seem to help himself.

“I need to go,” he decides and practically runs into the bedroom.

He collects his things and dresses in clean clothes. Aziraphale lingers in the living room as Warlock carries his bag out. Nanny is not in sight.

“Wait and tell her goodbye, at least, my dear boy,” Aziraphale demands, gently.

“She knows.” Warlock wants to wait. Tears prickle. He grabs the book that Nanny gave him off the table and stuffs it into his hoodie pocket. “Tell her thanks for coming for me.”

And he hurries out the door. That time, he does not forget them immediately. In the weeks that follow, however, the night in the hotel takes on a soft, dream-like hue. If it were not for the book in his suitcase, Warlock might claim the entire thing never happened.

* * *

Warlock Dowling is thirty-two and marrying the love of his life. Again.

He’ll admit that his search for true love has had false starts. He married Amy at twenty-four in a courthouse. They divorced less than a year later. He married Cathy two years later in secret in Las Vegas. They annulled their vows three years following. Third times a charm, they say. He’s gotten it right this time.

Kristie is kind and gentle. She’s beautiful and smart. She’s also four months pregnant with their daughter, but that’s neither here nor there. This time, it’s real.

She walks down the aisle to him in a Catholic Church—he’d converted for her!—and she’s glowing with joy. They share vows and a kiss, then it’s onto photographs while their guests shuffle off to their vehicles and onto the reception.

Warlock and Kristie enter the hall with dance music, photo flashes, and cheers. He turns and takes in the smiling faces of friends. And there, at table thirteen, is Nanny.

He’s wearing a sharp black suit with layers of black that is only offset with a bright red tie. His hair is short and styled so that his serpent tattoo stands out on his temple. He looks like a rockstar. Aziraphale applauds their arrival at Crowley’s side. He’s dressed as he stepped out of a Henry James period drama.

Warlock wants to go to them, but Kristie is pulling him by the hand to the dance floor. They’re supposed to eat, but she doesn’t care. She wants to dance. And who is he to deny her?

Some indiscriminate time later, his feet are sore. He is hungry. He is tired of talking to people he does not know. This wedding thing is rather trying.

Then Warlock looks up and Crowley is sauntering his way.

“Nanny,” he says, gently and Kristie looks over in surprise.

“Hey there, hellspawn.” He takes Warlock’s hand in his and gives it a slow shake. His sunglasses reflect the dance floor lights and Warlock cannot see his eyes. He knows that Crowley would pull him into a hug if he even looked like it was welcome.

“Oh congratulations, my dear boy!” Aziraphale gushes. He kisses Kristie’s hand and blesses her. “Oh!” he glances at Kristie’s waist and then over at Warlock. “Another congratulation then!”

Kristie looks alarmed. Outside of her family, no one knows. Crowley chuckles.

“He does that,” he confides, but it's meant sweetly. “As one who has been with my best friend for many, many years, I’m giving you only one piece of advice: listen to one another.”

Aziraphale hums and leans into Nanny’s side as he wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist. “I believe the traditional suggestion is ‘do not go to bed angry’, but Crowley’s is better. You’ll find one day,” he looks lovingly at Crowley, “that they know you better than you know yourself. So listen to them.”

Nanny takes Aziraphale’s hand and smiles at Warlock. “If you need me, my prince, you have my mobile.”

And before Warlock can argue that he does not in fact have Crowley’s mobile number, some cousin breaks into the conversation. Warlock does not see Nanny leave, but they do.

Days later, when they sort through the multiple gifts, Warlock will find a silver snake charm tied onto the ribbon on a toaster. He pockets it absently, but it goes through the wash and he never sees it again.

* * *

Warlock Dowling is sixty-one when he becomes a grandfather. Jian and Wren are two weeks premature. They’re tiny and need all sorts of beeping and terrible machines, but they’re perfect. Kristie is sitting with Suri as she rests and, no doubt, Ava will be hovering nearby instead of making out the hospital couch and sleeping like she was supposed to do.

Warlock makes his way into NICU and stops short. In a rocking chair with his shirt rucked up to his underarms is Nanny. He holds Wren against his bare skin. He hasn’t aged. He’s wearing dark purple scrubs.

He sings the world’s oldest known lullaby in ancient Sumerian, “ _Usa ŋanu usa ŋanu, usa ŋanu ki dumuŋaše_ —“ his voice drops off when he sees Warlock.

“Hello, hellspawn.”

“Nanny.”

“Wren is having some thermoregulation issues, so we’re having a cuddle.”

Warlock opens his mouth to ask a question, then closes it again. “Does Jian need the same?”

Crowley leans over and looks into the little acrylic box at the little boy. “He’s still holding his own. Aren’t you, bunny?” He addresses Wren next. “And you’re just fired up, aren’t you, angry?”

“Bunny? Angry?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “He’s got a wiggly nose. She’s got a temper.”

“Oh. Of course.” Warlock sinks into a rocking chair. “How are you here?”

Nanny rocks Wren slowly. “I drove, like most other commuters.”

Warlock shakes his head. “No. I mean, how are you _here_?”

“I’m working tonight. NICU isn’t the best job—it’s heartbreaking, if I had a heart, of course—but I like kids. And this one needed some snuggles tonight.” Crowley tucks his chin down to talk to Wren. “Right, angry?”

The baby grunts and Crowley grins. “Angry infants are my favorite. They’re so pissed off and they have no idea why.”

Warlock stares. “Nanny. You should be _dead_. You were, what, forty when I was a kid—“

“About six thousand and… ten—well, that’s just according to when time began. I was around before time too, you know,” Crowley says thoughtfully.

Warlock blinks. Crowley leans forward, carefully cradling the infant, and lets his sunglasses slide down his nose. He blinks his yellow eyes slowly.

“I am a demon, Warlock. Aziraphale is an angel. We have cast magic around you for your entire life. You just ignore it. You explain it away. You force yourself to forget. Again and again. Sixty years of forcing yourself to forget.”

Warlock blinks. Crowley stares back. He sighs suddenly and leans back in the rocker. “Yeah, you’re going to ignore the facts again this time too.” He addresses Wren, “Your granddad is a hardheaded tosser, but I think large amounts of that is due to the way I raised him.” Wren grunts again. Crowley pats her back.

“You’re a demon,” Warlock says slowly.

Crowley gives an affirmative noise. He begins to hum his lullaby to Wren again. He rubs her impossibly tiny back with his thumb.

“That’s not possible.” As soon as he says this, Crowley holds up his hand and splays his fingers as if he’s showing Warlock the number five. The tip of his index finger sparks into a flame like a lighter. Crowley blows it out.

“And yet, I am a demon. Have been since the Garden of Eden. I am also your mum. I wanted to come and see your grandbabies.” He looks down at Wren’s downy head and gives a nearly lovesick sigh. “I’ve never met my _great-grandkids_ before. I know I have some, but I’ve never held them before.”

Warlock stares at Jian. “You’ve held your granddaughter, then?” His voice trembles.

“Ava Dowling-Chen?” Nanny replies with adoration. “Of course I did. I was the nurse who weighed her. Screaming, squirming little thing.”

Warlock blinks again. Yes. Yes, he remembers. Nanny was their midwife assistant or the nurse? Wait, why was she in their birthing room?

“You’re a nurse?” he asks, but that is not the question he means to ask.

Nanny waves the question away, like an obnoxious fly. “Something like that.” He sees Warlock’s discomfort and continues. “I’ve been around humans for as long as they’ve walked the earth. I have helped with every bit of human medicine that has existed. I have seen hundreds of babies born… I was there when Cain and Abel slipped into this world and now I am here for your grandchildren. A bit of symmetry there, twins and all.” He looks thoughtfully at Jian and Wren. “Let’s not do that murder thing though, you two.”

Warlock reaches out and takes Wren from Crowley. “You’re a demon.”

Crowley is slow to hand the baby over and his face shutters as he sees Warlock’s defensive sneer.

“Yep,” he agrees, his word ending with a pop.

“I do not want a demon near these children! You ruined my family when I was a child and you have tainted my life. You stay away from my family!” he snarls.

“Sure, my prince. Sure.”

Crowley stands smoothly and saunters to the door of NICU with long strides.He stops just short of leaving.

“I told you when you were twelve, or eleven maybe, that you’d curse me in the end.” He looks back at Warlock. “You think I’m creating a self-fulfilling prophecy?”

“Get out,” Warlock growls.

“Yeah,” Crowley replies and looks longingly at Jian and Wren. Finally, he turns his eyes to Warlock and gives him a sad smile. Then he leaves.

Days later, Ava will comment about the little silver snake charm bracelets someone left for the twins. Warlock will throw them into the bin the moment no one is looking.

* * *

Warlock Dowling is seventy-four. Kristie is drunk and giggling in the passenger seat.

“Best retirement party any girl has ever had!” she declares and giggles again. Warlock glances over at her rosy cheeks and falls in love again. He looks back at the road and slows for the red light. It turns and he accelerates again.

The lorry slams into the side of their car the very next moment. Glass cracks and metal screeches. Kristie screams. The lorry pushes them into incoming traffic and a mini-van slams into them. Warlock struggles to stay conscious as another car impacts the pileup.

Kristie reaches out and takes Warlock’s hand. It’s sticky with blood. There, strangely, on her wrist is a charm bracelet that he’s never seen before. A silver snake charm lays on her bare skin, shining with blood. He grabs it and rubs it.

“Nanny. Nanny. I need help. _Mum_.”

There is a dizzying moment when he swears he sees black feathers.

“WARLOCK?” Crowley screams.

Then somehow the cars are moving away from his vehicle and Nanny is there, eyes blazing yellow and completely uncovered. She’s in a black lace cocktail dress. Her ginger curls are pinned back in barrettes. Even in her insanely high heels, she runs to him. She rips the door to their car off the hinges and tosses it away.

“Hold on, hellspawn,” Nanny says, gently. Her Scottish brogue is back, soft and lilting. She bends over him and presses both her hands to his chest.

“Save my…” he takes a sharp breath, “wife. Save Kristie.”

Nanny looks over to Kristie and a moment of panic crosses her face. Crowley crawls into the wreck, over Warlock.

“Hello, m’lady,” she says, pressing her hands to Kristie’s clavicle. “I’m your mother-in-law, but we’ve never actually be introduced.”

Kristie blinks slowly and then passes out. Beside them, an ambulance screams onto the scene. Crowley kicks the broken windscreen out and onto the hood of the car.

“Start here! He’s not stable,” she orders the EMTs and when they begin to argue, she glares and snaps her fingers. “Call for more help.”

She waits until they’re circling Warlock, then she climbs out across the hood of the car and into the next vehicle to begin helping the others. Warlock watches as best he can, but he fades in and out of the darkness.

Hours later, Kristie is asleep in the hospital bed beside his. She’s wearing a neck brace and has dark bruises under her eyes. She’s never looked more beautiful in his mind. He cannot speak. A tube rubs his throat. His heart rate is shaky.

The door opens.

“Lovely to see you, Master Warlock, my dear boy,” Aziraphale greets as he enters with a large vase of peonies.

He sets these down between their beds, then touches his finger to the back of Warlock’s age-spot-ridden hand. A blessing flows up Warlock’s arm and peace settles on him. Aziraphale repeats this action to Kristie.

Warlock looks all around the room, waiting for Crowley.

Aziraphale looks knowingly at Warlock. “You told her to stay away from your family. She won’t come unless you call her.” He holds out a snake charm on a long thread.

Warlock takes it and once he touches the metal, years of memories flood back. Then she’s in the doorway then, wearing red scrubs and a white medical coat. Her stethoscope has golden snakes on it.

“Hello, hellspawn,” she whispers, heartbroken.

Tears leak out of his eyes. He wishes he could speak to her. Crowley rests her hip on the edge of the hospital bed and touches Warlock’s cheek.

“My sweet prince, it’s all right. Nothing to say that I don’t already know.”She kisses his forehead as more tears slide down his cheeks.

Another being enters the room and the lights seem to dim. All around them, the world slows and falls away. Warlock feels a moment of panic.

“Mum?” he asks, brokenly around the incubation tube. He starts to struggle.

“None of that now,” she soothes and strokes his gray hair. “Just rest here. Look at me, okay, hellspawn? Just stay with me, Warlock.”

Behind her, Death leans his scythe against Warlock’s bed. Aziraphale makes small talk.

“Hello, Azreal,” Aziraphale greets Death. “How was the holiday in Tahiti?”

LOVELY. STAYED ON TAHITI ITI THIS TIME. HIKED A VOLCANO—PHOTOS ARE ON INSTAGRAM IF YOU’RE INTERESTED.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale replies. “We’d love to have you for Christmas or Yule or whichever if you’re around.”

I’D HATE TO MAKE PLANS AND JUST HAVE TO CANCEL ON YOU. PUT ME DOWN FOR A PLUS ONE AND I’LL REALLY TRY TO MAKE IT WORK.

“Work-life balance, Azreal. I thought you were working on that,” Crowley teases. She takes Warlock’s hand in hers. “This one’s my son, Warlock. Don’t chuck him off the end of the world, or whatever.”

PURGATORY IS NOT A CHUCKING OFF SPACE. MORE LIKE A PARKING LOT.

He taps Warlock with his scythe, which he shoulders once more.

ANDDDDDD… BOOM. ANOTHER SOUL INTO THE AFTERLIFE.

Warlock feels himself sliding away from his mortal body. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, but there are two loving faces watching him. The heart monitor at his bedside flatlines and nurses run in yelling about a cardiac cart. They ignore Death, Crowley, and Aziraphale as if they’re not there.

Warlock looks over to Kristie, where she’s sleeping. She stirs with all the activity but is still too drugged to respond.

“Goodbye, babe,” he whispers and kisses her lips one last time. She turns slowly as if feeling it. “Love you.”

“We will look after her,” Aziraphale promises.

C’MON, CROWLEY’S KID. IT’S TIME TO GET A MOVE ON. PEACE OUT, I’LL SEE YOU FOR CHRISTMAS.

“Enjoy your time, my dear boy. You earned your rest. And don’t play poker with Saint Peter. He’s a cheat and a cardshark.” Aziraphale’s blessing pours over his head.

Crowley kisses the back of Warlock’s hand as he slides away into death. “Goodbye, my sweet prince. I love you.”

“Bye, Mum,” Warlock calls. As he looks back, Aziraphale holds Crowley, who weeps openly. “Love you, too."


End file.
